Tales For The Socially Inept…

I was going to write something else about the Olympics. I really was. But then I got lazy. I got a book from the library about Canada. I entered a competition to win a €100 HMV voucher (give us!). I went to the playground. I worked on my singing voice. You know. Life got in the way. Now too much time has passed. Everything that I could say about ‘em has already been said. Probably better. And the paralympics are on now. So fuck it.

You wanna talk about some of the most awkward commonplace situations ever?

You do?!

Well that’s great news. You’re in the right place ol’ buddy, ol’ friend, ol’ pal!

After you… And you, and you, and you…

Okay so you’re coming out of… I dunno… the bank. There’s a frazzled looking woman on her way in. She’s pushing a buggy with a crying toddler inside. She’s trying to open a Milky Bar to give to the kid to try and get him to shut the hell up while she’s doing her banking. She’s carrying two bags from Dunnes, one from Heatons, she’s about to drop her keys and her phone is ringing somewhere inside her giant handbag. Hold the door open for her. She’s having a crappier day than you.

Behind the frazzled mother, dawdles a little old dear in with a tweed hat and orthopaedic shoes. You have to hold the door for her too. It’s the right thing to do. Hold it for the jolly looking farmer. Why not? He smells like shit, you can tell he’s probably illegally parked his tractor to run in and pay his credit card real quick, but heck, he looks appreciative and you’re in good humour.

But what about the woman with the Tesco bags? She’s still a good six steps away. Do you wait and hold it for her? Or do you let it go and get back to your car before your parking is up? Thing is, if you let it go, it’ll probably close just as she gets to it, rendering you the prick who let the door slam in the poor woman’s face. But then, if you hold it for her, why wouldn’t you hold it for the guy six steps behind her?

Where do you draw the line? What’s the etiquette? I’ve been here many times; caught holding a door for a flood of people, all taking advantage of your spontaneous good deed. Sure, it’s all graciousness and smiles until the fifth person doesn’t even bother saying “thank you”. Then you’re left reeling at the sheer audacity and lack of gratitude of the general public, vowing never to bother your arse again because “no one would feckin’ hold a door for me if it was the other way around!”

Until the next time you come out of the library and there’s a friendly chap who just has one too many books to effectively get through the door himself… I got it dude, after you…

Sorry? Say That Again…

“Hi, I’m Holly. What’s your name?”

“Vpojdsfasos.”

“Sorry? What was it?”

“Vawpadkkslcm.”

“Stacey, was it? Sorry. I’ve very bad hearing. One more time?”

“Iolkjanflkan.”

“Ah… It’s good to meet you…”

What was that chick’s name? I’ve no idea. Couldn’t hear her. Three times. Didn’t care enough to ask her a fourth. Which would be fine, except what if Vaalkefnvlew is really sound and you end up getting on really well with her? What if you’re having some drinks together and you’re laughing and she knows your name and your dogs name, you’ve taken loads of pictures together and you’re gonna definitely add each other on Facebook?! That’s great but… YOU DON’T KNOW HER NAME!.. You bolox… It’s too late to admit that now. You’ve been faking it for hours. She’d think you were some eegit if ya asked her name at this stage. Sure you’ve been to the toilet together for Christ’s sake!

“Yeah, yeah, give us your number, I’ll definitely text ya… 086… 313.. 8251.. cool… So I’ll just save that… under…. Uh…. Under your name… Which is… Hey, you know what?! I’m gonna save you under ‘Fleetwood Mac’ coz we were singing it earlier and it’ll be really funny and crazy and cool!”

Look at this video of these two cool dudes showing us how it goes when you forget someone’s name… They’re so awesome and brilliant at acting… 

How Much If I Put This Back?

Okay, so you’re broke. And I don’t mean, ‘shit, I can’t go to the cinema this week’ broke, I mean, ‘shit, I have to choose between meals and petrol this week’ broke. Maybe you’re broke because it’s another week till payday. Maybe you’re broke because you bought tickets to The Foo Fighters next summer, in case it sells out. Maybe you’re broke because you bought a round for everyone in the pub at the weekend in another stupid fit of drunken generosity. Regardless, you’re broke. And now you need milk… and Lucozade… And Buffalo Hunky Dorys… And maybe a pizza…

But, you’re a feckin’ genius so you know that these things are totally within your reach.

€1.90 from down the side of the couch.

€2.65 from the inside pocket of the jacket ya had on ya on Saturday night.

€0.90 from on top of the washing machine.

And €3.20 that your room mate left on the table to buy dishwasher tablets with later.

Sorted.

So, safely inside the aisles of your local supermarket you beeline for the frozen foods and collect one sumptuous stuffed-crust loaded cheese pizza (€3.99). You opt for the store brand milk to save a few cent (€1.60). Your regular bottle of Lucozade, no Sport or Cherry Cola for you (€1.99) and a packet of Buffalo Hunky Dorys (€.70).

Smug in the knowledge that you’re under budget and wont look like a bum when you pay, you make your way to the counter. Subtotal: €1.60, €3.79, €4.49. FUCK! The pizza was priced wrong! It’s €4.99! We’re on €9.48! Balls… Stuffed crust Chicago Town Loaded cheese for €3.99 was too good to be true in the first place. You knew that. This is your own fault.

“Oh Fiddlesticks, you know what? I didn’t bring my purse! I’ll… I’ll just… not get this then.”

Now what? There’s a line of bemused people forming behind you and you can’t afford your dinner. There, look, waffles. €2.00 for 6. Do rightly. Grab ‘em! Go! Laugh! Pretend it happens all the time because you’re so fun and scatty.

“Hahaha! Aren’t I so silly?!”

Now get out. And don’t come back until you’ve taken control of your habits.

To Eat or Not To Eat?

Food is a very personal thing. No two people will ever have exact matching tastes in food. I like garlic bread. My best friend once tried to kick me out of a bed in an Amsterdam hotel because I’d had garlic bread at lunch. She really enjoys peanut butter. I can’t stand the stuff. My brother wont eat peppers. My sister gags at the thought of steak. I’ll eat carrots but I wont touch cabbage. I love chicken but I don’t do fish. I’m wary of cous cous and hummous because I’m not really sure what they are. You know? Food is just a matter of personal preference.

So what do you do if you’re at someone’s house for dinner and they dish up something that you wouldn’t let past your lips in a month of Sundays? Like, I dunno, you’re at your boyfriend’s house meeting his parents for the first time and his Mam serves you a big plate of liver (cooked to perfection) with brussel sprouts, chick peas and a side of shit flavoured pate. What do ya do?

“Mmmm, looks delicious Mrs. Badchef! You’re quite the cook!”

You’re not actually gonna eat any of that crap are you? Why don’t you just go out to the garden and have a few worms instead? You could pretend to be sick. She might get offended though. It’d be a bit convenient to get suddenly ill just at that very moment. You could say that you had a big lunch and would she mind if you had it a little later (by which you mean let the dog enjoy it after she’s gone to bed)? It’s a tough call to have to make. Although, if your boyfriend had any manners he’d jump in and save you.

What I’ve been served / What I would rather eat

Do You Think You’re Funny?

You walk into the room and into the middle of a conversation between two of your friends.

Friend 1: “Yeah, that’s what they wanted to do but apparently it’s too big…”

You: “That’s what your mom said last night! Oh!”

Friend 2: What?

You: “Your mom… Like, the joke… Implying that I did the nasty with your mom… And she said it’s too big… You know?”

Friend 1: “We’re talking about my mom’s inoperable brain tumor…”

You: “Oh… Shit…. I… Jesus, that’s… I’m so sorry… I was just messin’, I didn’t mean… Is your mam gonna be okay?…. I’ll uh, I’ll get my coat.”

Humour 101: Know your audience.

Don’t tell jokes about paedophiles around parents. Don’t make cracks about sex around your dad. A priest isn’t gonna appreciate any hilarious one-liners you’ve got about the catholic church and all that… controversy.

You covered your friend’s car in masking tape? That’s very funny and all, except he’s gotta collect his granny from the her hospital appointment in half an hour and now he’s really pissed.

Just… Be careful.

“Happy Birthday Dear Friend O’ Mine, Happy Birthday To You!

You know when you’re at someone’s birthday and the band takes a wee break for the emergence of the cake? The person comes in with the candles glowing and everyone bursts into a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ except the only thing anyone can hear is the horrific singing voice of the person standing next to them.

The ‘Happy Birthday Song’ is usually just a big hilarious mess. Mostly because no body, no where, no how, sounds good singing it (much like ‘Silent Night’ at Christmas… “Sleeeeeep in heavenly peeeeEEEEEEEACE!). I believe it was likely written by someone with a great sense of humour. And then there’s the fact that everyone sings it in different keys, with some coming down or going up to try and match the majority key. Some people opt for a bit of “you look like a monkey”, some people stick to the script.

I usually just move my lips a bit and try to look like I’m really into it.

“No, I was looking past you…”

This one time I was out Christmas shopping in Clery’s in Dublin. As I perused the novelty gift items, I noticed a little girl sitting in a pushchair between two aisles. Her Mam was obviously nearby doing some perusing of her own. The kid was super cute. Probably about two years old, dressed in a red, festive dress and with a little green bow on her almost bald head. I couldn’t help but stop to look at her. I didn’t go near her or anything. I just stood for a minute, taking in the cuteness. Then she copped me. And went ballistic. She started screaming and (shockingly articulately for a child of her size) calling for her mother to come because there was a girl staring at her. Shitballs! I scarpered fairly lively.

Moral? Don’t stare at babies in department stores. Apparently they can talk these days. That kid, I instantly assumed, was about to tell her mother that I was likely assessing her worth in some kind of child kidnapping operation. I didn’t need that. Not at Christmastime.

So now I mostly just mind my own bidness when I’m shopping.

You Couldn’t Be More Wrong…

You: “Salma Hayek was Johnny Depp’s wife in Blow.”

Them: “I don’t think she was.”

You: “I’m tellin’ ya! She was the wife and she loved the money and the cars and she was the full time smoking. Salma Hayek.”

Them: “No, it was that other one, I think.”

You: “Are you mental!? Did you see the movie or no? Yer man’s wife… In the movie, Blow… With the Spanish accent… Was Salma… Hayek.”

Them: “Was it not Penelope Cruz?”

Flip! It feckin’ was Penelope Cruz and all. Now that you mention it. I forgot she existed.

“Aw maybe it was. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

Backwards roll out of the conversation…

She’s My Cousin, you know…

Eminem once said, “goddamnit you little motherfucker if you aint got nothin’ nice to say then don’t say nothin’!”

Eminem’d be full of valuable advice like that.

Alas, not all of us listen to Eminem in time for him to save us from making a bolox of ourselves in front of people.

This one Monday morning, when I was just a furry grey cygnet, I was in the schoolyard gossiping with my friends about the youth disco we’d been to on the Friday night before.

“Remember when Mikey Badskin came over and asked if you’d shift Tommy Wonkytooth?”

“Yes! It was right after Jennifer Tinyhands was all over him on the bus!”

“Guys, did ya see yer one from Ballyenemy?”

“Yeah, what was she wearing?! That top was a crime!”

“What about that one the year below us! She could have done with getting that skirt about five sizes bigger!”

“That’s my cousin…”

Oh balls… Dig up! Dig up! Dig up!

“No, like I mean she looked amazing, it was just, maybe, a little… um… tight… Her hair was killer! She’s got such amazing hair! I’m so jealous!”

Ya just never feckin’ know, do ya? So nowadays, as a precaution, everybody looks fabulous. Chick with the pink boob tube? Fabulous… Girl in the ridiculous big hoopy earrings that keep getting caught in the fingers of everybody she drunkenly hugs? Fabulous… Lassie in the white dress whose underwear is visible through it? Fabulous… Yiz all look fabulous…

That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

Well That Was Rude!

Yesterday I was about to cross the road in town. I stopped to let a car pull out in front of me. It was my friend! In the passenger seat. And I’m all, “Hey!! Well!! Hi!”. I’m waving like crazy because I haven’t seen him in a while and I’m tryin’ to make sure he sees me. And he looked at me and kind of, half-waved with a “who the fuck is that?” look on his face.

Of course he did… Because it wasn’t my friend at all. It was just some dude who happened to look really, really like him. His doppleganger, if you will. So I tried to look real busy and rushed on across the road and out of sight as quick as I could, hoping to never see that guy again.

I do this all the time! I’m walking past people I know and saying hello to them just before I realise they’re actually strangers. I’m passing people on the roads and beeping my horn and wondering why they didn’t beep back. I’m starting conversations with people after a few drinks because I know their little sister, except no I don’t, I know someone else’s little sister and this person is looking at me like I’m the biggest pest goin’.

But what do ya do? There’s no point in engaging a stranger in a whole rigmarole about how you saw them and thought that they were this friend of yours who looks like them and that’s why you were waving like an ape and you’re sorry but it’s uncanny how similar they are. They don’t care. They saw you waving and immediately assumed you were just some mentaller. They don’t need an explanation. To hell with ‘em.

If they’ve got any questions, just make something up. Tell ‘em you’re pretty sure that you joined the mile high club together on a flight from Bangkok to Bogota back in ’96. Then get offended and storm off because they don’t remember and you thought it was special.

It’s Not The Size Of The Dog In The Fight, But The Size Of The Fight In The Dog…

Okay so here’s the deal. For SEVERAL days now I have been trying to compose something intelligible about the Olympics. I have started several drafts, updated countless results and profiled numerous athletes. But now, ten days in, I have come to the conclusion that attempting to write any kind of comprehensive or lucid account of the games whilst they are still ongoing is just shy of impossible. It’s not gonna happen. I just can’t do it. It’s all too much. There’s too much happening. It’s all too exciting. To be honest, I’m so enthralled I can hardly cope.

I’m just in awe of the whole thing. The stadium is magnificent. The enthusiasm is infectious. The pressure is on. The support is overwhelming. The competition is fierce. I’m totally enamoured with the athletes. All of ‘em. The determination. The dedication. The ridiculous physiques. The hours and months of training we didn’t see. The glorious wins and the crushing losses. The favourites and the dark horses. The injuries, the disqualifications, the record breakers, the close calls. They’re better than me. They’re younger than me. I want to see their twitter pictures. I’m even finding myself coming close to emotion at every medal ceremony I witness. Doesn’t matter what anthem is being played, if the medallists are welling up, I’m playing too. I do realise what a ridiculous person I am, but damnit it’s all just so feckin’ inspirational.

Will, Kate and their ever-present third wheel, everyone’s favourite royal, Harry the rascal, have been in attendance at several events, as has David Cameron. Paul McCartney was at track cycling. Bill Gates was at the tennis semi-final. David Beckham has been at the football. Bar Rafaeli cheered on Phelps at the swimming. Even Michelle “Tha Bomb” Obama came over to continue telling everyone to quit being so damn fat.

But this is all so new and unexpected. Three months ago I was wholeheartedly agreeing with my London-based cousin who ranted about the commuting issues she was expecting to face when the hysteria descended. In January, my beloved Christmas ads were replaced with patriotic, Olympic hype from across the Irish Sea. As the Budweiser Clydesdales were put out to pasture for another year and the Coca Cola lorries disappeared over the snowy horizon, we now had Fairy telling us that it takes 20,000 dishes to build an athlete, Ariel telling us that it’s the colours you came in that matter, British Airways commentating an international luggage race through the airport and Usain Bolt racing a bearded dude through London on behalf of Visa.

“This is all we’re gonna be hearing about now for the rest of the year.” I griped.

I hadn’t cared about Beijing in 2008 and I didn’t care now.

I do like this ad for Asics though… 

Except somewhere, sometime, somehow, I kiiiiinda started to care. And then I started to care a little more. And then it was July and I started to get excited. And then it was time for the opening ceremony and I nearly lost the whole run of myself with enthusiasm. I sat through the whole thing. It was amazing.

Since then, I have been riveted. My life has all but come to a standstill. I’m living in constant fear that I might miss something big. It’s really no way/the only way to be living. I’ve become a proper inexperienced expert, with an opinion on how everyone’s doing despite actually knowing jack shit about anything I’m talking about. You can expect to see evidence of this in the upcoming paragraphs.

The other day my brother and I were watching the Kayak Slalom. I’ve never watched a kayak competition before in my life.

“How’s yer man doing?”

“Eoin Rheinisch? He’ll qualify but he’ll not be in the top ten.”

“What’s his time?”

“1.89 something. Slow enough.”

Another evening was spent watching weightlifting with my dad… Yeah, weightlifting.

“How much does this guy have to lift now?”

“78KG.”

“And he’s failed twice so far? Nah. He’ll not do it. That left leg’ll get him again.”

“He might, you know. He almost had it last time.”

Point being? I’m in. I’m on board. I’ve got Olympic fever and I’m loving every second of it. I’m watching athletics and swimming and archery and equestrian and canoeing and weightlifting and diving and gymnastics and rowing and sailing and cycling and judo and volleyball. I’m watching it all. Except for handball. Handball is poxy.

Ireland have a team there. Course we do, bless our little cotton socks. We haven’t done all that tremendously well so far. But God loves a trier so we’ve sent over no less than 65 rosy Irish cheeks to have a go. Poor aul Grainne Murphy didn’t have a great time in the aquatic centre, losing her first race and later deciding to pull out. Leixlip canoeist, Eoin Rheinisch was doing fierce well there for a while but missed a gate in the slalom semi-finals, ending his Olympics in a matter of seconds. Aileen Morrison was our hardcore triathlete. She came 43^rd. Well done.  Kieran Behan, Ireland’s only competing gymnast (who, let the records show, was born in Laaaandan) was done after qualifications. Joanne Cuddihy placed 16^th out of 21 in the 400m semi-finals. As I type, Derval O’Rourke has managed to qualify for the 100m hurdles semis tomorrow. Even back in the RTE studios they’re like, “It’s the first time she’s run sub 10 seconds this season. This race isn’t about winning for Derval. It’s about breaking those barriers for herself.”… Well, good for her, but she’s currently 16^th overall and up against faster women like American runner Lolo Jones and Australian Sally Pearson.

Some of our Irish team. Clockwise (L-R): Swimmer, Grainne Murphy. Canoeist, Eoin Rheinisch. Gymnast, Kieran Behan. Sailor Annalise Murphy. 400m Joanne Cuddihy. 100m hurdler Derval O’Rourke and triathlete, Aileen Morrison.

Still though, while we unreservedly support every man and woman competing in green over there, we can’t be too disappointed. We never had our eggs in those baskets anyway. Nah. We don’t breed swimmers, gymnasts or sprinters here in Ireland. There are three types of athlete bred up in here. The first is the racehorse (Shergar, Rock of Gibraltar). The second is the GAA star (DJ Carey, Davey Fitzgerald, Jack O Se). And the third… Well, the third is boxers. We may not cycle all that brilliantly or have the best archers in the world but by gosh darn it we can give ya a good slap. Kevin McBride, Sam Storey, Barry McGuigan, Steve Collins, John Duddy, Bernard Dunne. Champions.

With this in mind, most of our eggs lie in the baskets of just four people. Paddy Barnes, Michael Conlan, John Joe Nevin and one miss Katie Taylor. All four Irish boxers made it through to their quarter-final matches.

Nevin, Barnes, Conlan and Taylor

Last night John Joe Nevin secured Ireland’s first medal, thrilling a nation. Bronze is his. He beat Mexican, Oscar Valdez in his quarter final bantamweight match. And he looked fuckin’ wrecked when it was over. He’ll fight again for silver on August 10^th.  Also, can I just point out one thing about John Joe Nevin; He boxes for Cavan boxing club (wayhey!!)

But yeah, these are Ireland’s medal hopes. Katie Taylor is Ireland’s own Jessica Ennis. Our face for the Olympics and our biggest bet for gold. She is the current Irish, world and European women’s boxing champion. Back home in Bray she’s been known to spar with fellow Olympic boxer, Paddy Barnes. She was also in that awesome ad for Lucozade sport with Tinie Tempah and Travis Barker. And she’ll fight today. A win guarantees Ireland’s own little fighting machine a bronze medal. It also advances her to the semi-final. A win there guarantees her a silver medal and advances her to the final on Thursday evening where a win would, of course, earn her the coveted and illusive gold.

Here she is showing what she’s made of in a spar against Paddy Barnes: 

Aside from the excitement of the possibility of a medal for Ireland, so much has been going on lads! Have ya seen much of it so far? It’s been treeeeemendous!

The first event that got me all psyched up was the Men’s Synchronised 10m Platform last Monday. Wee Tom Daley was diving with his partner Pete Waterfield (not Waterman, totally different guy). They finished in 4^th place after a bad final dive.

I love Tom Daley. Not in that paedo “phwoar” way that hoards of teenage girls or the pervs that work for Heat magazine do (he was Torso of the Week last week. He’s 18 lads. Don’t be sinners.). Nah, I like him more in a “aw, look at him there! I just wanna pinch his cheeks and carry him home in my pocket,” sort of a way. I watched that documentary on BBC a couple of weeks ago, ‘Diving For Britain’. It was about Tom and his mission towards the Olympics. Now, I don’t cry at movies (cold, black heart, remember?), but I cried watching this documentary. I know, I’m so embarrassed. BUT, like it featured his dad who was his greatest supporter and friend and went to every training session and every competition. He died last year from cancer of the brain. The documentary captured his whole illness and lickle Tom’s reaction. I defy you to watch this and not cry as a dying man talks about his fear that he might not get to see his son compete at the Olympics. My brother said this: “You’re on his twitter now? You do realise that he’s a poncy little wanker, don’t you?” But I don’t. I think he’s a lovely and extraordinarily talented young buck. He’s diving next in the Men’s 10m Platform individuals on August 10^th.

Awwww, Tom Daley. Individual 10m platform. August 10 guys.

The swimming events took place this week too. They. Were. Awesome!!! One name dominated the whole show. Phelps. Now a former swimmer, these games saw Phelps tally up his number of Olympic medals to 22, making him the most decorated Olympian of all time. I mean, the guy is just ridiculous. Thank God he’s giving up. It was like Formula 1 back when Michael Schumacher owned the whole thing. It was less exciting because you just always knew that he was gonna win it. Apparently Michael Phelp’s arms, when spread out, measure 2m across. He’d wrap ‘em around most of us twice! You also have to give love him for that time he was pictured smoking a bong. Oh Mickey, you naughty little scamp! Olympic swimmers don’t smoke weed! Silly pup!

The greatest Olympian of all time, Michael Phelps, in and, uh, out of the pool…

Friday saw the start of athletics. What the Olympics is really all about. I was all over the Women’s Heptathlon. You know why. She’s been the most prominent face of Team GB. She’s everywhere. She was on the cover of Cosmo this month. She’s staring out from magazine pages as the face of Olay. Yeah, I’m talking about Jessica Ennis. I’m not sure any athlete competing in the games right now has had as much pressure on them to achieve as this chick.

Before last week I didn’t really know what a heptathlon was. Matter fact, turns out I’ve been pronouncing it wrong my whole entire life. Hep-A-thlon. No. Hep-TA-thlon. Anyways, so turns out it consists of 100m hurdles, 200m sprint, 800m sprint, high-jump, long-jump, javelin throw and shot put. Guys? That’s seven things!

Jessica Ennis has been heavily publicised this year. She’s had the whole of Great Britain behind her. I’ve been behind her too. We feel like we know her. She’s from Sheffield. She’s got a dog called Myla, a fiancé called Andy and reckons she makes a mean lasagne. She’s relatable. Except get the fuck with that! Jessica Ennis only seems like the rest of us. In reality, when you are getting up to pee at 6am and hoping to god you can get back to sleep for an hour and a half before your alarm goes off, Jessica Ennis is probably sprinting on a track in the cold morning air. When you are griping about having too much to carry in from the car (a top personal gripe of mine), Jessica Ennis is probably working on her javelin throw. When you are struggling to climb the stairs after that really intense 45minute-long zumba class, Jessica Ennis is probably having an ice-bath after a six hour training session. When you are chowing down on a full-Irish and a packet of Rancheros, Jessica Ennis is probably eating three bananas and a bowl of porridge. She’s not like you and me. She’s an athlete. And that’s the reason she won the gold medal in the London 2012 Women’s Heptathlon in what I have decided was the greatest moment of the games thus far.

Heptathlete Jessica Ennis burst into tears as she crossed the 800m line, securing her first Olympic gold.

It was amazing. By the time the last heptathlon event rolled around on Saturday evening; the 800m, Jessica was in the lead. She won her semi-final, earning enough points to make her unmatchable. She cinched the gold and burst into tears as she crossed the line. She ran 800m, eight football fields, in 2minutes 8seconds. Yesterday I decided to run 400m, just to see. I ran it in 1minute and 54 seconds. Almost two minutes. To run half of what Jessica Ennis ran in just 14 seconds more. And I was fit to collapse after. Pathetic.

Saturday, as it turned out, was Great Britain’s most successful day at the Olympics in 104 years as they took home six golds. Jessica Ennis, of course, won the heptathlon. Then there was golds in the Men’s Long Jump. Two rowing golds. Cycling gold and then the thinnest man I’ve ever seen, Somali-born, British runner, Mo Farah won the 10,000m.  Sure it’s all happening lads!

Golds for GB. Clockwise (L-R): Cyclist Bradley Wiggins, Long jumper Greg Rutherford, Tennis champ Andy Murray, 10,000m Mo Farah, Shooter Peter Wilson, Cyclist Victoria Pendleton, Rowers Sophie Hoskins and Katherine Copeland and Heptathlete Jessica Ennis.

Ultimately though, at this point, it’s all about one guy. They call him Usain. He thinks he’s Richard Branson. But he is, in fact, the fastest man on the planet. He loves chicken nuggets, dancing and he regularly tweets pictures of himself playing Call of Duty. He said he’s 95% fit for these games. He also said that, if he feels up to it after the 100m, he might go for gold in the 200m; “for my country, why not?”.

Last night Usain qualified for the 100m finals with a time of 09.87. In the second semi-final Bolt’s fellow Jamaican and training partner, Yohan Blake won with a time of 09.85. Faster than Richard Branson and his high speed broadband. The final was at ten to ten. Eight of the fastest men in the world lined up and millions took ten seconds out of their hectic lives to see who’d take the gold. But you know who took it. You know who’d take it from the start. The Lightening Bolt ran it in 09.63 seconds, a new Olympic record (he would, wouldn’t he) and proof that his winning semi-final time was the result of him not even bothering to try.

Team mates, training partners, rivals, Usain Bolt and Yohan Blake after Bolt’s 100m win last night

He was, predictably, followed by Blake at 09.75 and then American, Justin Gatlin for the bronze in 09.79. It was EPIC! Bolt runs again in round one of the 200m on Tuesday. He’ll win it. Course he will. Look at the big gangly arms on him. No contest.

And that’s pretty much where we’re at so far. The week ahead looks good too, set to be dominated by boxing for us. We’ll see more from Usain Bolt from Tuesday. Little Tom Daley dives again on August 10^th. Dublin girl, Annalise Murphy is sailing today. She’s in with a chance of another Irish medal. With a bit of luck we might see Billy Twomey or Cian O’Connor in the showjumping final on Wednesday. We’ll have some more canoeing, rhythmic gymnastics. Taekwondo begins on Wednesday. And, of course, athletics will go on in the stadium up to Friday.

Then, on Sunday, it will all end. There will be a big-ass ceremony. The athletes will march again. There will be winners and, uh, LOSERS! Muse will play. Take That will play. London will hand over the Olympics to the next host city for the 2016 Olympic Games, Rio de Janeiro. And then… The flame will be extinguished. And I will be devastated. Because the excitement will be over for another four years.

Hold up, wait, I’m getting all melancholic for no good reason! There’s still a whole week to go! There’s so much still to come. So many medals still to be won. It’s not over yet. And to be honest with ya, I’ll probably be back here again next week doing this again.

Oh also, there are no videos of the Olympics available on youtube right now hence why I haven’t embedded any. They’re so darned protective of that shit. Sincere apologies.

Here’s Usain being Richard Branson for the craic…

Take This Pink Ribbon Off My Eyes…

Feminism.

I know, I know… My mind is exactly where yours is right now, picturing some ugly bird with a mole on her chin, in an unflattering outfit, holding a match to her bra, bitching about Playboy whilst simultaneously painting a picture of her vagina in a liberating expression of femininity.

Look, I am going to discuss feminism up in here. But… I don’t like that sanctimonious aul’ hag any more than you do. She’s extreme and impractical, either ignorant to or disregarding of the fact that she needs that bra to stop her boobies tippin’ down for a chat with her bellybutton.

Aussie Feminist, Germaine Greer said this about bras:

“Bras are a ludicrous invention, but if you make bralessness a rule, you’re just subjecting yourself to yet another repression. For some, the bra remains a symbol of restrictions imposed by society on women.”

Ludicrous?! I tell ya what Germaine, assuming you’re not quite a 32A, bin the bra and then go for an aul’ jog on the treadmill. Ludicrous still? Or proven essential?

Personally, I like to wear a bra most days. Not only that but I’ll take all the support they can offer me. Full-cup? Aye. Good, wide bone? That’s the ticket! Three clasps at the back? Sold!

But anyways, I’ve digressed. Feminism is an issue that makes most modern women recoil in horror and embark on a passionate denial campaign. That’s thanks to the stereotypical notions of feminists as cranky, man-hating, hippies striving to be artists, poets, scholars and feckin’ electricians.

I am not a feminist. I think women have come too far to still be playing victims. Modern feminism is little more than a justification for women to fight for something that is already ours, something that was given to us by women like Emily Davison, the suffragette who was killed in 1913 when she threw herself in front of the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby in a display of martyrdom for women’s rights, of which we had few.

But we no longer have few. The suffragettes of the 20^th century were the real feminists. The cause was real and the goal was immense. They changed the world. In the 1960s second-wave feminism exploded. The contraceptive pill was approved and a whole bunch of new issues arose. The hippies were ON IT!  They tackled sexism and workplace discrimination. Big things, you guys. Big things. The women of yesteryear made it easy for us. They fought the fight so we could reap the benefits.

Suffragette Emily Davison throws herself in front of the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby 1913

So why are we still whining?

We are currently in the centre of what is known as “third-wave feminism”. Now, under-informed and unenthusiastic about the movement, I can only speak from personal opinion. And my personal opinion is that these whinging broads would wanna take a step back and realise that women have never been so free. Neither have we ever been so powerful. 2012 is not the time to be crying about how difficult it is to be female.

Small yarn: My 20-year-old brother has been driving for five years. He passed his driving test first time. He drives a small but incredibly loud little Fiesta. And he is plagued by the guards. The kid is insured. He’s taxed. The car is NCT’d. He has a full-licence. He is, in all regards, completely within the law. Yet he is stopped by the Siochana frequently. His discs are checked. He is questioned. Sometimes searched. I, on the other hand, am 24-years old. I have been driving my little navy Yaris for two years. Like my brother, I am reliably law-abiding. Unlike my brother, I am left alone by the Guards. Rightly so. But the double standard, far as I’m concerned, seems to be gender focused. In the eyes of the Irish cop, a young dude like my brother has to be up to no good. Catching him on the roads provokes a full interrogation. I’ve been stopped on the roads once… Once… In two years. The guard made a bit of small talk, looked at my licence and sent me on my merry way. I’m a girl. Why would they bother interrogating me? It’s the lads they’re after.

Is not that sexism? Methinks so.

The fact is that we live in a time rife with strong women. Hillary Clinton. She came so close to being president that time. It’s gonna happen someday soon yo! A woman will be president of the United States. Lori Reynolds made headlines last year when she assumed the role of Commander of the USMC training headquarters at Parris Island. Julia Gillard became Prime Minister of Australia in 2010. More familiar faces like Oprah Winfrey, Ellen DeGeneres, Angelina Jolie. Women. Being. BOSS!

The music industry too is dominated by women. Gaga, Rihanna, Katy Perry, Lopez, Kelly Clarkson, Pink, Nicki Minaj and, my personal list-topper, Beyonce Knowles. Look at this:  Word. Don’t fuck with Beyonce. She brings it.

See, Beyonce’s got it right. Successful, beautiful, talented and savvy. She’s the biggest star in the world right now. She knows what she’s doing. Her priorities are set and all her ducks are in a row. She sang ‘Independent Women’ with Destiny’s Child and she meant it. Jay-Z has 99 problems but his bitch ain’t one. Beyonce shows us that you can have great strength and still be feminine. She voids the feministic idea that women should reject societal ideals; things like make-up, high-heels and embracing sexuality. Beyonce wears heels, she shows some skin and she runs the world (ish).

Women not to be fucked with: Clockwise L-R: First Lady Michelle Obama, President of the Indian National Congress Sonia Gandhi, First US female navy carrier-based fighter pilot Kara Hultgreen, Australian Prime Minister Julia Gillard, Oprah Winfrey, US Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton, Editor-In-Chief of the New York Times Jill Abramson and (Centre) Beyonce Knowles.

We don’t need angry old dolls bitching about porn and maternity leave, born into the wrong generation and tardy to the party by about forty years. Women, in the 21^st century, well, we’re alright. I’m a firm believer that if one plays the victim, one will be the victim. If feminists could just quit the moaning and look around they’d see that they’re fighting a battle that has already been won. The audience has celebrated and moved on and they are left behind, full of resentment because they seem to now feel that women deserve superior rights to men.

I don’t believe that radical expression and lingering on issues past is doing anything for women. But I do believe in independence, in confidence and in doing and being anything you want, regardless of gender.

In Pink’s song, ‘Stupid Girls’, she comments on the abundant examples of unmotivated, under-achieving, conformist girls whose life goals include having bigger boobs and marrying into money. These chicks are everywhere. They wanna be WAGS, they love fancy handbags and they play dumb to make men feel more intelligent. They spend their childhood wanting to be vets and then, somewhere along the way, a lack of inspiration and/or proper guidance they come to believe that one’s goal in life should be marriage, money and children. The ambition of being a vet gets replaced with one of just wanting a husband who makes a decent wage. The sound of their dreams gets drowned out by the deafening tick of their biological clock. These girls do just about as much for women as the modern feminists do, reiterating clichés of women, setting us back and standing as utterly useless role models for the confused generation behind us.

Courtney Love may be crazy like a fox, but she took the notion of femininity, turned it upside down and owned that shit! 

Have you ever read any of the women’s magazines like Cosmopolitan or Marie Claire? I think they’re behind this conflict between being a Courtney Stodden or a Tracy Emin. It was actually an article in Cosmopolitan that inspired this article/rant/nonsense. It was written by a dude who was giving out about men having to pay for everything on dates. Is he right or is he wrong? I’ve no idea really. But it made me think. In the same issue of Cosmo there was an article about how in order to succeed, women need to be pushier, like men. Few pages ahead, there’s an article listing the three things that men look for in a girl (1. you don’t flip out if you lose your phone. 2. you can sense if something’s wrong with him. 3. you tell funny, interesting stories about your day). Few pages ahead there’s an interview with Olympic athlete, Jessica Ennis. An article on how to firm up your body. Then an article called (and I’m dead serious with this) ‘What His Penis Wishes You Knew.’ Then an inspiring interview with “An Alpha Female”. It’s just all so inconsistent. Of course, it’s all silly fucking fluff really, but there are women who read that shit and think, “yeah, I wanna know what his penis wishes I knew!” We all know idiots like that.

When your shitty personality just doesn’t cut it, good old Cosmo has the answers!

But look, I’m not saying that I’m any kind of brilliant, independent, gung-ho maverick woman. I bought that magazine. And I read it cover to cover.

A few months back, I wrote a blog here about my second year in college when I lived with four guys. It was awesome. I loved it. I loved them. We had a blast. When the year was up and third year rolled around, I was in an apartment with four other girls. It was not cool. They did not like me. I did not like them. We did not have a blast. When all was said and done I concluded that men have it right with their approach. They just don’t give a fuck. A spade is a spade. They don’t feel hard done by as men. And they don’t care if we feel hard done by as women.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, why can’t we just be let be. I like being a girl. I like having long nails. I like styling my hair. I like high-heels. But I also like Discovery Channel documentaries. I like roaming the countryside with my dogs. I like video games. I believe in romance too but it’s not my be all and end all. I think if you take care of yourself, indulge your interests, chase your dreams and be the best you can be, the rest will come.

Life is what you make of it. It’s not about oppression. It’s not about discrimination. And it’s certainly not about gender. It’s time to forget feminism altogether, let sleeping dogs lie and seize the opportunities that lie in front of us. If he doesn’t hold the door open for you, it’s just because he’s a prick, that’s all. And you’re a prick too if you don’t hold it open for him. That’s gender equality.

Fire in The Heart, Ice in The Veins…

So…. Euro 2012 is underway in Poland. Ireland are out. Beaten by Croatia and then by Spain. We will likely be beaten by Italy tomorrow night, just as a final kick us in the balls when we’re already on our knees, sealing our place as one of the most embarrassing countries to be from in Europe. Cheers for that one. The Irish fans and their vocal support long past the final whistle at the Spain match are having their praises sung by all and sundy, except for Roy Keane, who said something about coming along for a sing-song not being enough. Personally, I could give a shit about any of it.

Here’s what I know about football: 

I tried to be into football for a while when I was younger. My brother and cousin were all about it, so I joined ’em, deciding my favourite team was Manchester United and my favourite player was Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. My cousin and I, creatively, called him “Curly Boy” because of his curly, black hair, and, man, we thought we were THE SHIT for coming up with such a hilarious and original nickname. So… that’s embarrassing for me. Anyways my affair with the beautiful game was short lived owing to the fact that I found it boring as hell and didn’t understand any of the rules. Any of ’em. None. Except that a red card meant “get off, you naughty little scamp!”

That was it. In the years since my foray into soccer fandom, I’ve dallied with other sports. I played handball for a while in National School (I even made in on to the BOYS doubles team! WHAT! WHAT!). But handball, as it turns out, is a pathetic sport and nobody plays it. Then I was an avid horse-rider for years. The highlight of my year used to be going to the Dublin Horse Show every August. And I’d always buy a pile of junk that I didn’t need; grooming brushes, pony treats, coloured whips, helmet covers, books, you name it! Alas, you don’t see much of equestrian competitions on the big screens down the local. Then I fell in with motorsport for a good while. There was a good two years where I repeatedly found myself awake at some ridiculous hour of a Sunday morning so I could watch the live coverage of whatever Formula 1 race was on (I was a Raikkonen fan.) Nothing stuck. Rugby? Too violent. Golf? Too boring. Cricket? Too British. GAA? Too familiar.

I gave up. I quit like a great big quitter. I informed the tomboy lurking inside me that she was bound to stay where she was, to be freed only by occasional splurges on Military Channel documentaries and Man Vs Wild. I dedicated my life to celebrity gossip instead. I was in an Irish Bar in Newcastle with some family last April, when our home province team, Ulster, beat Edinburgh to make it through to the 2012 Heineken Cup Final. The place was jammed with excited, chanting, raucous men, my own relations included. The buzz was electric. I couldn’t tell you what the score was. I could, however tell you that that was the day after Barack Obama made fun of Kim Kardashian at the White House Correspondents dinner. Or that Beyonce called her fake pregnancy rumours “crazy” that day. Or that LeAnn Rimes and Eddie Cibrian had just renewed their wedding vows. That’s what I can tell ya.

So, it was somewhat a bolt from the blue when, in June of last year, I discovered….. HOCKEY!!!

I was a latecomer to the 2011 NHL race for the Stanley Cup, not witnessing anything before the opening game of the finals. I was introduced to the game by my best-friend and serial cohort, who happens to be Vancouver born. The season culminated in June for a series of seven playoff games between the Boston Bruins and the Vancouver Canucks. So my best friend is a ‘Couv native. But then, I have an uncle who’s lived in Boston for the past twenty-odd years. Who was I gonna root for? I ultimately went with the Canucks after coming to the realisation that they were ruthlessly vicious, hard-as-nails and hell bent on fighting for that cup. The Canucks fought dirty throughout the playoffs and we fucking loved it. We downloaded every game the night after it had aired (because where were we gonna watch it live?) and we sat, enthralled, involved and committed.

It came down to the wire. When game seven rolled around on June 15, the Canucks had three wins and the Bruins had three wins. Game seven was the decider. And the Bruins destroyed the Canucks 4-0 at Rogers Arena, taking the Stanley Cup back home to Massachusetts and out of the reach of the devastated Canucks. Ryan Kesler bawled his wee eyes out right there on the ice. The people of Vancouver responded decidedly badly to the loss. Suffice to say, they went fucking apeshit and rioted the shit out of the city!

Canucks fan in Vancouver in the aftermath of the 2011 Stanley Cup Riot

I didn’t mind all that much. I was happy enough. Because I’d discovered a sport I could get down with. I faacking laaaaved hockey!!!

Agus is anseo an fath…

The Insanse “WHERETHEFUCKISTHEPUCK?!” Speed

Hockey moves fast. The players skim across the ice at lightening speed and send the puck even faster. The average speed of a player is around 25mph. The average speed of the puck is around 97mph. Pretty nifty. Games are three periods, each twenty minutes in duration, and there’s zero let up. I mostly learned to forget trying to keep and eye on the puck and just watch the players. Go where they go. All the glory of goals, as far as I’m concerned, has to be absorbed in the replay, seeing as I’m never actually paying close enough attention to see it do down in the first place.

Here’s Canuck centre, Ryan Kesler, goin’ hella fast at the 2011 NHL Skills Competition: 

The Violence

Listen okay, I know I said that I can’t watch rugby because it’s too violent, BUUUUT, for absolutely no justifiable reason whatsoever, the violence in hockey is kind of what makes it for me. So we know these guys move fast. But they also go hard.

There’s a tactic used in play called “checking”. Without going into an condescending and unnecessary explanation, checking, or more specifically, body-checking, involves slamming oneself into an opponent, usually the dude with the puck, and forcing him into the ringside boards. It’s fucking brutal lads.

This one time, in 1996, Detroit Red Wings player, Kris Draper, was checked from behind by Colorado Avalanche player, Claude Lemieux. He hit the boards face first. Broke his jaw, his nose and his cheekbone. Draper’s teammate, Darren McCarty was behind the board and later said he “could hear his face crack”. Noice. McCarty would later go on to launch an EPIC retaliation attack on Lemieux the following year when the Red Wings faced the Avalanches again.

A Subheading For Violence… THE FIGHTING!

Oh man, the fighting. You know, I’ve long held the opinion that soccer players are nothing but over-paid, over-pampered, helpless little paaaaansies. This I maintain. You know that  guy, Didier Drogba? Plays for Chelsea. Isn’t he notorious for faking injuries? I think I read that… Anyways, you don’t get that shit in hockey. These guys are HARD. AS. NAILS.

Fighting, in the NHL, is not only legal, it is openly encouraged and viewed as tradition. Heck, it is tradition. Fights are usually the role of the enforcers. It’s their job to aggravate the fuck out of the other guys. Some fights are premeditated by the players, some  erupt suddenly out of nowhere, some involve two guys, some involve two teams, some are professional, some are personal. But all are ferocious. Sticks are thrown down, gloves are usually discarded and players descend into a melee of fists and fury on the ice, watched by the refs, who decide when enough is enough.

This is a good ‘un: 

Hockey teams are close knit and more often than not, players are not afraid to jump into a fight on behalf of a teammate slighted. Blood is shed and the crowds go clayne ballistic for it! Decent fighters are valued by their team and revered by fans.

Hell, the Canucks won me over last year because of their infamous bad behaviour on the ice. I loved it.

The Fans

Michael Buble, of Vancouver, British Columbia, is so dedicated to hockey that he requests a local team hockey puck in his dressing room everywhere he performs. Michael Buble (who’s marriage won’t last, by the way), is so devoted to hockey that he bought part of the Vancouver Giants team.

Hockey fans are loyal and committed. And they’re involved. Part of the beauty of a hockey game is that the fans are separated from the game by just a glass board, which the players are slammed up against continually throughout a game. There seems to be a certain level of intimacy at a hockey game. Thousands of people, supporting their side and going pure wild at the very inclination that a fight might go down.

I digress again to the Vancouver riots. The second time Canucks fans had a less than docile response to a Stanley Cup loss. Yes it was a pretty substantial overreaction. Things got a bit cray, people got hurt, it wasn’t cool. But if anything marked the kinship that the fans feel for their teams, that was it. Vancouver was a city devastated. They had come so close. And they reacted, in true Canuck style; ridiculously violently.

Skill

So you want to be a hockey player? Okay, well first you’re gonna have to learn to skate. Then you’re gonna have to learn to skate backwards. Then fast. You’re gonna have to be able to stop suddenly or you’ll get busted into the boards. Now you’ve gotta learn how to use a stick, how to hold it, how to maneuver the puck. Then learn all the various types of shots; slapshot, wristshot, snapshot, backhand slapshot, sheesh. Okay, then learn how to “deke”, or trick your opponent with decoy moves. Evasive skating. Toughen up for some checking. Lose some teeth, perhaps. Learning to fight wouldn’t be the worse decision.

I just… Like, it’s definitely more than I know I’d be able to handle! Yeah, yeah, footballers are skilled too. Aye, but they’re also great big paaaansies, remember!

Shootouts

In 2005, the NHL made a controversial decision; to make tied games obsolete. The shootout was born.

It’s pretty straight-forward, if the game runs it’s time and the scores are tied, then it goes to shootouts. Each team has three players take a shot. The best of three wins the game. But what if both teams score 2 out of 3? Then it’s shootouts until one team scores and the other misses.  Simples.

It means every game ends with a clear winner. It means that tensions run high and games often come right down to it!

The Stanley Cup Itself

First of all, all the players on a Stanley Cup winning team get their names engraved on the cup. So that’s awesome.

Second of all, every player on the winning team gets a day with the cup, and he can do whatever the heck he likes with it. In 1996, Sylvain Lefebvre , of the Colorado Avalanches, used the cup as a baptismal font for his daughter. Creeeeepy. Okay. In 1994, New York Rangers forward, Ed Olczyk, took the cup to the stable of  Kentucky Derby winner, Go For Gin, where the horse ate out it. The horse… Ate… Out of the Stanley Cup. Patrick Kane of the Chicago Blackhawks took the cup to Niagara Falls in 2010. Mark Messier, Edmonton Oilers, took it to a strip club. It’s even been to Kandahar, Afghanistan. I mean, you know?! That’s aces!

Los Angeles Kings captain, Dustin Brown, with The Stanley Cup. June 2012.

Celebrities

I had to get it in there! As I said Mickey Buble is a massive hockey fan. Corey Monteith, of Glee fame, has been spotted at several Canucks games. Vince Vaughn is a huge Chicago Blackhawks fan. Snoop Dogg supports the Anaheim Ducks. Carrie Underwood is married to Mike Fisher of the Nashville Predators. Mike Myers, Justin Bieber and Drake are all Toronto Maple Leaf fans. Trey Parker (South Park) is a Colorado Avalanches supporter. Kevin Smith, of Mallrats, Clerks, Jay and Silent Bob, fame, supports the New Jersey Devils. Kid Rock, Detroit Red Wings. All the names, yo. All the names.

 

I could go on but I feel I’ve started rambling so I’mma go ahead and curtail myself ‘fore I go cross-eyed. You get the gist of what I’m sayin’ though, right? That hockey is gosh-darned awesome and I wish it was more available to us Paddys. Sure we love a bit of violence, no?

Look, Kanye West knows… 

Lewd, Crude, Nude and Tweeting Some Dude…

Last week I read a story that, for no reason I can put my finger on, shook me to my core (lie). I was horrified (lie). It was one of those stories that you hear and then it lingers in the back of your mind for days after, discreetly bothering you at random interludes throughout the day.

The story was about Melanie Sykes and her new toyboy lover, Jack Cockings. They’ve been doing some very racy and public talking about their relationship via Twitter.

We’ve known Melanie for years. She used to do ‘The Big Breakfast’ on Channel 4 way back when. She did ‘Today With Des and Mel’ and ‘Let’s Do Lunch With Gino and Mel’. She did ‘The Vault’ on ITV. She did ads for ‘Head and Shoulders’. She’s done loads of crap. You know, the kinds of shows that tired, slightly overweight housewives watch at 12:30 on a Tuesday afternoon with a cup of tea and a packet of Bourbons while the kids are at school and before the washing machine finishes. Melanie is one of those people that have just always been there. She’s always been around on the telly, smiling, laughing and generally being far too hot to be someone we can all relate to (in the same vein as Myleene Klass). We know her. We like her. She’s a successful television presenter. She has two young boys aged 10 and 8.  Her physique is riDONKulous.

Awww look, it’s Des and Mel! We know them!

Except now Mel has gone and forever tarnished her lovely image by being a cheap, filthy, over-sharing tart on Twitter.

After going through a divorce in 2009, Melanie soldiered on. She got herself a Radio2 show with Alan Carr. She landed a gig hosting ‘Missing Millions’ on ITV. She posed nudey, nude, nude for Esquire magazine in December 2011. And then, in May this year, Melanie did something no self-respecting (and incredibly good-looking) celebrity should ever do. She hooked up with some nobody that she met on Twitter! WHATADUMBBUTT!

The guy is a 26-year-old investment, finance something-or-other whose Twitter handle is @bespokespartan. He’s 15 years her junior. So, what’s that rule for dating younger?  They say that the lowest age you can date is someone half your age plus seven. So Melanie is 41. Half of 41 is 20.5. 20.5 plus 7 is 27.5. Melanie can, therefore, unashamedly date someone who is 27.5 years old. Uh Oh…

Anyways, Melanie clearly is not familiar with this rule and is flagrantly parading her new love on the social media website.

Right, the dirt…

So they met on Twitter in April when Jack, having failed to attract the attention of either Jodie Marsh (“Do you need a boyfriend?”) or Cheryl Cole (“Love you.x”) with his tweets, turned his focus to our Mel. He tweeted her saying, “No way are you 41. Marry me?” He then proceeded, mortifyingly, to barrage her with photos of his kid and pictures of himself working out (awesome. How cool is he?!) until Mel, idiotically, started replying. She followed him. She told him he was “adorable” despite the volume of evidence pointing to him being a cocky, arrogant little prick who was chancing his arm with a celebrity, likely for the amusement of his equally pompous mates.

Jack Cocky, sorry, Cockings… What a stud!

Long story short, they’re now boyfriend and girlfriend and appallingly crude for all to see on Twitter. She’s calling it an incredible modern day romance. I’m calling bullshit. I’m also calling a decidedly short relationship lifespan.

Here’s one exchange:

@MsMelanieSykes: ‘Jack the rabbit I need some bunny love so hop to it!! Xxx boing boing!!! Loooooool xxxxxxx’…@bespokespartan: Only if I can bounce into your face! Xxx’ … @MsMelanieSykes: ‘Will you fill mine? Xxx’

Good. God.

Ahem, I continue…

@bespokespartan: ‘I’m ready and very hard! Bouncy bouncy xxx’… @MsMelanieSykes: ‘Me nips are up! tweak tweak!! Xxx’

@MsMelanieSykes: ‘Get off Twitter and get back in bed! Xxx’ God you are insatiable! I love it! Xxx.’

@MsMelanie Sykes: ‘My white jeans can’t take it anymore gonna have to rip these babies off! X’ and ‘my throat is inflamed can you help? : )’

I mean, you know what I’m sayin’? Tone it the fuck down you guys! I’m delighted that yiz are havin’ great sex and all but some of us are Catholics up in here! All evidence points to Ms Sykes not doing very well free from the constrictions of a daytime watershed.

I have drawn one main conclusion about their relationship…

Poor Melanie Sykes must having some kind of mid-life crisis. She’s the wrong side of 40 now, her kids are getting older, she’s been through a divorce, her career hasn’t panned out quite as well as Holly Willoughby’s and she’s decided “fuck it. Despite having the rockin’ body of an athlete, Melanie lapped up the attention of the brash banker, who, let the records show, has a tattoo on his ass of his mate’s name that he got for “banter” (well done on your life, son). She’s all consumed and flattered by the interest of a “hot” younger man and wants the world to know. She might as well hijack BBC News and announce, “I may not be Claudia Winkleman but I’m hot and young men still want me!” . I mean, I’m assuming that she’s just loving the notoriety that comes with having a toyboy and all the attention that her personal (public) exploits have garnered. Damn it, if she can’t be Kate Thornton then she’s gonna be a whole new Melanie Sykes. Fuck to being a responsible mother. Fuck to being a family-friendly TV personality. Fuck to being in any way respectable. Fuck to dignity. She’s gonna have at it!

See though, the thing is, I’m not saying that she’s out and out wrong. On one hand I’m thinking, good for you. Why not? If she wants to have a toyboy then have one. She’s clearly very satisfied. But Jesus Christ would ya shut the heck up about it on Twitter?!

Her older son is ten years old. No messin’, I know ten-year-olds who are on Twitter. Ten-year-olds today are not like ten-year-olds ten years ago. When I was ten I got on the ol’ dial-up very occasionally and when I did, I was looking up shit like, “horse grooming brush”. These days I’ve got eight-year-old kids telling me about the referendum and saying that Wayne Rooney is a bad man “because he kissed someone else that was wasn’t his wife.” Kids know stuff. They’ve got access yo.

In the days since the media picked up on her smut, Melanie has apparently gained something like 15,000 new followers (I’m one of ‘em!). Perhaps that’s all part of the plan. I don’t know.  What I will say though, is that if she continues down this line, destroying her respectability as a daytime TV figure, unconscientiously producing cripplingly embarrassing ammo for playground bullies to use against her children for years to come and categorically abandoning her sense of morality through her lewd messages, then that’s gonna be 15,000 horrified yet highly entertained individuals.

HOLY. SWEET. JAYSUS!!! She posted this in between bouts of “giddy knickers”.. Like, ya can almost see her.. YIKES!

By all accounts it would seems that @MsMelanieSykes is under the impression that this is a real relationship. This week she tweeted, “‘I’d like to formally announce that @bespokespartan is my boyfriend.” She is evidently oblivious to just how, ahem, whorey, she is actually coming across. See, it’s great to have a full and active sex life and all but there are certain things that just shouldn’t be said on a social networking site to thousands of people. You know, things like, “I’ve got the raging horn, please take me.”

All said and done, the fact is that any dude who tweets,”tweeting while hanging out the back of @MsMelanieSykes”  (yeah… I know) is probably not the man that you’re going to share a long and happy life with. He’s not likely going to be an honourable father figure to your two sons who, in just a few short years, will probably be big enough to give him the slap they’d be entitled to give him.

@bespokespartan: “Should I take @MsMelanieSykes in the ass tonight???” – Oh God! I dunno brother! Maybe just ask her! I don’t… Like, I just can’t… Ugh!

Sigh, and like, the fing is, yeah? I’m sure Melanie Sykes is a very nice person. Despite my scornful mockery, I do really believe that she’s probably as happy and fun as she comes across on-screen. And I s’pose I better also say that ’m sure she’s a great mother. She’s happy with this guy. Maybe he’s decent behind the swag (I said maybe).Maybe the whole sordid thing will do wonders for her career. Get her a spot on Celebrity Juice or something.  I mean, who the fuck am I to have an opinion, right?

But I just… STOP IT MELANIE SYKES! GO BE EROTIC IN PRIVATE!

Note: I began this piece without thinking. I subsequently got carried away. I have since come to realise how utterly irrelevant and fluffy it is… And I’m so very sorry.

The Solution To All Things…

Google is amazing. Google is the king of the search engines. I mean, how often do you hear someone say, “let’s Yahoo! It” or “let’s Bing it”. Doesn’t happen. Google offers us the answers to any question that we may have. It doesn’t care how ridiculous it is. It doesn’t judge.

Recently, my cat was looking a bit poorly. She was squinting and her eye was running. So, predictably enough, away with me to Google to type in “why are my cat’s eyes running?”. Probably an infection was the gist of the 783,000 answers it returned in 0.25 seconds.

But, in between bouts of helping the world find it’s answers and changing it’s logo to honour the anniversaries of things I have mostly never heard of, Google has questions of it’s own. Whether King G actually wants to know or if it’s asking on behalf of an anonymous majority, I’m not sure. But, it’s a beautiful day outside, so what else would I be at but doing my small part to get the answers?

In an awesome show of man and machine working together to educate the world, I started the questions, Google finished ‘em and then we worked together to find the answers. We did ten and then I got a sore back from being curled over this laptop and we decided to conclude. SO! Here we go…

When can a man… Hit a woman?

In short, never. But, that goes with the understanding that it is also never “legally” acceptable for a woman to hit a man.

According to wiki answers, “Hitting or killing someone is against the law, always, regardless of the situation. In some cases it is ‘excused’ by the concept of self-defense. Self defense is not a right. In certain situations it may be permissible by law.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking; What if she’s being an absolute, total bitch? What if she crashed your car? What if she wiped your itunes? What if she served you Greek salad for dinner? What if she says she doesn’t like your best friend?

Apparently… still not okay. Note that this piece is fixed exclusively on “hitting”. I can neither confirm or deny that it is okay to gouge, bite, headbutt or scratch.

Why do people… Hate Nickleback?

Nickleback, the Canadian rock band led by Chad Kroeger and responsible for the song, ‘How You Remind Me’, (Never made it as a wise man.” ‘member it?) have sold over 50 million albums over the course of their incredibly successful 17 years in the biz. However, despite undeniable success, people fucking hate them.

While Nickleback claim status as a rock band, many aficionados dispute this, criticising them for being “poppy”, commercial and repetitive.

Nickleback is the band that everyone loves to hate. Hating them, hating Chad Kroeger and his arrogance, hating the songs, it’s all a big, popular, communal way of saying what Kurt Cobain said way back before he shot himself in the face; “Corporate Rock Sucks”. Funny when one considers that everything about Nickleback and Kroeger (eh!) screams “WE’RE EMULATING GRUNGE!”

Except that while bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Alice In Chains garnered success through luck and determination, Nickleback have ridden their coattails, emerging in 1995, and making every move in a calculated and very deliberate manner. Instead of distaining popularity, as the punks from the 70s determined is the cool thing to do, Kroeger embraces it and pretends to hate it.

So, to conclude, people hate Nickleback because they are corporate rock sell outs who stick to a formula and premeditate every fraction of their careers. Mind you, they’ve made a few pound.

How much does… An abortion cost?

It depends.

Here in good ol’ Catholic, God-fearing Ireland, abortion is illegal unless the mother’s life is threatened by continuing gestation.

But get this, abortion is FREE on the NHS! Who knew?! You need to have two referrals from the doctors and meet conditions of The Abortion Act 1967. Alas, “I’m just not a baby person” probably wont get you an abortion on the NHS.

Private abortions in the UK range from around £500 to £1000 depending on various factors.

A quick search tells us that in the US, “A 2001 study conducted by the Guttmacher Institute found that the average overall cost of an abortion in the United States was $468.”

So, you know, don’t just be running out and paying full-whack for your abortion. Shop around, get the best value, times are hard. Google wont judge you.

At what point does… CPR become necrophilia?

It doesn’t.

If we’re gonna be all anal about it (absolutely no pun intended so don’t even think it!), then I’ll tell you that, technically, necrophilia is an attraction to a corpse.

When we perform CPR on someone, compressing their chest, we are manually pumping that person’s heart, keeping oxygen flowing to the brain and thus, keeping them alive. Ergo, CPR is always performed on a living person. Unless of course, you start performing it on someone who’s already been dead for two hours. Then maybe I’d be concerned about your sexual tendencies. Otherwise, work away my life-saving friends!

Is it legal… To own a monkey in Ireland?

Ah the age old quandary. People have been wondering about the legality of pet monkeys in Ireland for generations.

The answer is yes. You can have a pet monkey in Ireland. You can even get them in the Buy & Sell.

What would happen if I ran… Over a ninja?

Another age old question. I’ve never come across a ninja on the roads myself personally. I’ve also never heard of anyone coming across a ninja whilst on a driving excursion ever. But who am I to say that it doesn’t or cannot happen?

Google brought me to Yahoo! Answers, and there, one very clever guy, who definitely sounded like he spoke from experience said this:

Basically, you laugh to yourself and think you succeed; but you don’t. A number of things can happen:

-If it’s a nice ninja, you just die. You just die right then and there. Just drop down dead.
-If it’s a spiteful ninja, you’ll die a long and painful death. This could take up an hour, a day, or just until you find a way to kill yourself (because you WILL want the pain to end.)
-If it’s a horny ninja, you will die of internal injuries after he rapes you in the *** with his giant blade-penis.
-If it’s a ninja who had some bad luck in a recent relationship, you will die of blood loss after he cuts your scrotum off.

I mean, that all sounds pretty awful. And that’s me taught to drive more cautiously and always, ALWAYS, be aware of crossing ninjas.

Do children… have rights?

Yes they do. Contrary to popular belief, children in 2012 do have rights. What’s more, they’ve got feckin’ loads of ’em!

Children have the right to a name and nationality. They have the right to adequate standard of living. They have the right to healthcare, education and services. They have the right to play and recreation. They have a right to a balanced diet. Children have a right to protection from abuse, neglet, exploitation and discrimination. They have the right to participate in communities. They have the right to be helped first in a disaster. They’ve got the right to have their best interests considered in decisions. They have a right to have a say in decisions. Aw man, there’s tons more.

Kids are so lucky!

What is wrong… With Zac in Emmerdale?

Zac’s got pancreatic cancer guys.

Back in December, Emmerdale did a storyline in which Cain Dingle was attacked. It later came to light that it was Zac who attacked him. Imagine! He attacked his own son. Anyways, it was all grand until Zac started getting really depressed and drinking heavily. Racked with guilt, he lost his job at Home Farm and started behaving very erratically and causing poor aul’ Lisa to become very worried about him. A few weeks later, unwell, Zac went to the doctor. He was sent for scans and it was subsequently revealed that he had pancreatic cancer.

Now… Isn’t that sad? Also, I’d like to clarify that I don’t actually watch that muck.

Is it okay… To eat my period?

I didn’t even hit “Search” on this one. I don’t want to know any more. I don’t want to know who asked the question in the first place and I don’t want to know why. Because the answer is no. The answer is no. The answer will always be no. No. It is not ever okay to eat your period under any circumstances. Period.

How do kids… Make money fast?

A video on youtube says that all kids need to do to make money fast is to click the link below. Says they could earn $100,000 in five weeks. I thought about clicking on the link but noting that “adding comments has been disabled for this video”, I decided not to bother.

In my own experience, seem’s the quickest way for a kid to make a FORTUNE is to make either their First Holy Communion or their Confirmation. I know people who save just so they can afford all the hand-outs that have to be given to children in this country every May.

I’m thinking the Catholic church should come up with some other passage for us to go through that involves everyone we know giving us cards with money in ’em. Like a baptism refresher in our mid-twenties or something. Be class.

Now. Don’t you feel educated? Next time your friend is worried that she wont be able to afford that abortion, next time you find yourself in a dispute with an 8-year-old over their god-given rights, next time you see someone hesitate before starting CPR or you consider getting a pet monkey for your niece’s birthday, be confident. You’re armed with the answers. And you’re there to help.

This Is Not A Political Post, Right!?…

Last Christmas, while doing the obligatory round of festive socialising and seasonal drinking, I found myself having a conversation with a United States army soldier. From California, based in Germany and with at least one tour in Iraq under his belt, he enquired, as many less informed than he do, about the set of military dog-tags that I wear around my neck.

“Well, you’ve heard of Bowe Bergdahl, right?” I replied expectantly, intending it to be a rhetorical question.

I was met with a vacant look, astonishing me and indicating rather clearly, that this guy had absolutely no recognition of the name.

Bowe Bergdahl is a 26-year-old US army soldier from Hailey, Idaho. On June 30^th 2009, in Eastern Afghanistan, he was captured by the Taliban-supporting Haqqani network. His version of the story says he fell behind on patrol. The Taliban version says he was ambushed while drunk off base. Regardless, today, three years later and in a pitiful display of the lack of burden his POW status weighs on the shoulders of the United States military, Bowe remains the only US soldier in captivity.

Bowe (front right) in Afghanistan a month before his capture, May 2009.

I can’t recall an exact moment I first learned of Bergdahl. But I can recall being struck by his story. This kid is just a little older than me, I thought. From a small town in Idaho, Bowe was just a young guy with his whole life ahead of him. He was raised by his religious parents alongside an older sister, Sky. He was described by friends as thoughtful, well-read and athletic with a talent for shooting and a love of skiing and martial arts. He had travelled Europe and worked at a local coffee shop in his hometown. He was just like any other young guy really. Everything about him was relatable. A son, a brother, a nephew. I found myself recognizing elements of my loved ones in him.

Bergdahl, in uniform, before his deployment.

In 2008, ready for a career and without telling his parents, he enlisted in the army. He was placed in First Battalion, 501^st Parachute Infantry Regiment, Fourth Brigade Combat Team, 25^th Infantry Division in Fort Richardson, Alaska. He deployed to Afghanistan in early 2009 as a machine gunner. His parents recall emails from their son, seemingly happy, describing the beauty of the country and the wonderful people.

On the morning following his disappearance Bowe was absent from roll-call at his outpost. Panic ensued as tracking dogs were sent into the surrounding area to locate him. Drones were also sortied in a vain bid to recover the missing soldier. Of course, they found diddly squat. Documents exposed on WikiLeaks in the aftermath of the incident, translate intercepted radio transmissions from the Taliban dated July 1st 2009, the day after Bowe’s disappearance. In the transcript, one voice apparently says, “I think he is a big shot. That’s why they are looking for him.” The second voice replies, “Can you make a video and announce it all over Afghanistan that we have one of the Americans?”. He is told that the video has already been made.

In the few years since his capture, the Taliban have released five videos of Bergdahl. One showed the American, bald and cross-legged on the floor, eating fruit. Another showed him in a pale shirt, noticeably thin and standing alongside a bearded middle-eastern man. As much as each video was riddled with propaganda, featuring Bowe, timid and obviously scared, deeming the war as “not worth the waste of life that it has caused both Afghanistan and the US.”, they also came as relieving proof that he was still alive and as such, were received with gratitude by those who cared.

Probably the most heart-breaking video, released in 2010 and presumably recorded in Pakistan, presented Bowe, wearing an army jacket, describing his life before his imprisonment and making a desperate plea for his freedom. He talked about his family and repented over not letting them know how much he loved them when he had the chance. “I love my family,” he said. “I haven’t shown it very well because, well, I’ve been pretty lost in my life and I don’t think I’ve given my family the love they’ve given me. But I love my family and I pray to God to see them again.” Described by his mother as, “the hardest video to take.” It was almost spine-chilling to watch.

 

In May of 2011, after almost two years of dignified silence, Bowe’s father, Robert Bergdahl released his own heart-breaking video. Stoic and composed, he spoke to his son’s captors, commiserating over their losses in the conflict and, astoundingly, thanking them for keeping Bowe safe. The video was affecting, not least for Robert’s grief-stricken message to his son.

“I pray that this video be shown to our only son. God bless you. We love you. We’ve been quiet in public but we haven’t been quiet behind the scenes. Continue to be patient and kind to those around you. You’re not forgotten. You are not forgotten.”

Last year I ordered a set of dog-tags. Stainless steel and encased in red, rubber silencers, one reads my details. The other reads as follows:

SGT. BOWE. R BERGDAHL.

06/30/2009

POW

AFGHANISTAN

The tags are not part of some political stance or even a means to try and convince myself that I’m making a difference. I’m not dumb. I don’t know this guy. He doesn’t know me. We’ve never met. I’d be very surprised if the news of some chick in Ireland wearing dog tags provoked the Taliban to reconsider the whole thing.

I guess I’m just attracted to the sentimentality of the idea that as long as this kid is alive, alone and thousands of miles from home in the hands of a terrorist organisation, at the very least it’s nice to think that someone, somewhere, keeps him in their thoughts. That’s all.

Bowe, here in an old family photo, describes his love for motorcycles in one of the released videos.

Like many, I’ve long been disappointed by the apparent lack of action from the United States to secure the freedom of their M.I.A. Regardless of the various different counts of the circumstances of his capture, Bowe is a Prisoner of War. He was kidnapped whilst in Afghanistan serving his country. And his country seems to have just left him there, attempting to make words speak louder than action.

I am signed up for Google Alerts on Bowe. It means that every afternoon, I receive an email with an assortment of links forwarding me to any recent mentions of his name online. I originally signed up in the hope that someday I’d receive notification of his release. Alas it hasn’t happened yet. As much as my breath is baited for good news, I am, instead, greeted with a daily plethora of links to stories summarising stalled talks between the US and the Taliban and word of remembrance events across the States.  The display of ignorance on the part of the American soldier at Christmas solidified my belief that Bowe Bergdahl, if not completely unknown to most, is viewed as just a tiny piece in a conflict much bigger than himself, and, certainly, just a small fish to fry in the eyes of the Obama administration.

Bowe, thin and anxious-looking in another propaganda video

Having said that, after a mild flurry of interest last year, when word spread that Bowe had escaped and spent three days on the run (apparently “fighting like a boxer” when he was found), awareness is on the rise again. This week, his parents have come forward in an effort to try and push the government into doing more to bring their son home. They revealed that secret talks between the US and the Taliban were recently brought to a standstill by the opposing side. The deal would have seen the transfer of five Taliban prisoners from Guantanamo Bay to Qatar under conditions of house arrest in exchange for the release of Bergdahl to the United States military. The Taliban rejected conditions of the deal and, in essence, walked away.

Five for one perhaps doesn’t sound like the fairest deal going but the bottom line is that as long as they hold an American citizen, the Taliban has leverage. While his captors might lack the sentiment that their Western opposition places on the lives of it’s soldiers, they’re not blind to it’s importance in this exchange. America wants Bowe back. The Taliban know that and it’s for that very reason that he remains alive today.

Speaking out last week, Bowe’s father, Robert, who has learned the Pashto language in order to communicate with Taliban members, said that he believed he was in email contact with an Afghan man who has information on his son. In reference to him and his wife’s growing frustration at the slow progess, he said, “we don’t have faith in the U.S. government being able to reconcile this. You don’t leave something like this to Government officials. Why wouldn’t a father do this? This is my job.”

The Government, however, is adamant that it is exhausting every possibility to secure Bowe’s release. Spokesman for the Defense Department, George Little said, “finding Bowe Bergdahl is a top priority, and we will not stop searching for ways to return him to his family and country.”

Another official said that as much as an exchange may sound like a straight-forward means to an end, “We’re not talking about real nice guys out there who are willing to let Sergeant Bergdahl walk.”

A poster of Bowe sits on display at the Defense Department Central Command Center in an apparent show of dedication from the US.

Regardless of the conditions under which he gets returned, the reprise in awareness of Bowe’s saga comes at a tricky time and brings with it a sense of urgency for two reasons, the first being the obvious. The 2012 Presidential Election in November. Bowe’s capture, imprisonment and attempted release negotiations have all happened under Obama’s presidency. Aside from the obvious fact that there’s a chance he may not get a second term in the Oval office thus throwing the proverbial spanner very much in the works, in the run up to the election, Obama is being careful. The last thing he needs is controversy. He doesn’t want to be seen to be entertaining the demands of terrorists. The second reason is the imminent withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan by 2014. Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan has been ongoing for over 10 years now and is largely known as “the forgotten war”. Public interest had gradually faded and global focus has changed. The withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan can only serve to heighten ignorance on Bowe Bergdahl’s plight.

“Every day I want to go home. The pain in my heart to see my family again doesn’t get any smaller. Release me. Please. Bring me home. Please. Bring me home.”

One can only hope that the candour of Bowe’s loved ones and the consequent revival of public concern will push those who need to act into action to secure his safe return to the United States. I’m still waiting on the Google Alert in my inbox in the hope that I can, someday soon, put my dog tags into an envelope and send them to him in Hailey, Idaho.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bring-Bowe-Bergdahl-Home/105831760749

Handy Work If You Can Get It…

“Tell me about the health issues you’ve had recently.”

Staring blankly across the table at the man I was paying €40 to read my cards, I racked my brain.

“I’ve always been pretty healthy,” I replied, almost apologetic at having failed to come up with anything that had ailed me in recent months.

“No, emotionally,” he made a second attempt.

Again, I hit a brick wall. I understood his logic. It would be a fairly safe bet to assume that the majority of the usual suspects that graced the curtain of his “psychic’s lair” would have had some kind of emotional turbulence going on thus provoking their visit. Alas, I was not one of those people and, having been informed that I was incredibly fearful of rejection and that I cry a lot on the inside, I was now concluding that this man was nothing more than a very good con artist.

I would like to clarify at this point that paying €40 to have my future told by a chain-smoking medium down the back of a pub in Mullingar was not my idea. It was my mothers. Inherently trusting and full of faith, she wholly believes in angels, banshees and the ability of those few to see the future. She’d been to this guy several times. Swore by him. Many do.

I, on the other hand, am innately more sceptical. I have little time for religion, UFO sightings or ghosts. In general, if you can’t explain it to me, it aint getting past the door. I once read a saying on one of those funny signs you see outside churches in America. It went, “Faith sees God. Intellect does not.” Accurate and witty. I remembered it. That’s how this scribe sees it.

Having said that, at the encouragement of my ever compassionate, entirely trusting and kind-hearted ol’ Mum to accompany her, I found myself sat in front of one of Ireland’s most renowned psychics the other evening.

Having agreed on the reading and aware that it came at a princely cost, I decided to try and open my mind a little. Maybe I haven’t got it all figured out. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ve heard many people raving about this guy, how he’s predicted deaths and illnesses around them and gave them lucidity on a lot of things.

Driving down there after work, with my mother doing some Oscar worthy acting in her role as ‘most-nervous-passenger-in-the-world’ for the trip, I will admit that there was a part of me hoping I’d be told something profound. Something insightful. Something that I might be kept awake pondering that night. Even just some form of reassurance that I’m making decent decisions. No such luck.

Of course, the client themselves play a huge part in defining how good these guys are. As far as I can make out, the majority of clients at this particular dude are middle-aged women, house and duty bound and crippled with regrets.

That was way harsh Tai.

Point being that the best part of the people that go to see psychics go because they’re looking for some kind of emotional reassurance. They go hoping to emerge fulfilled, hopeful and enlightened. They go, so certain it will put their mind at ease, that when Mr. MoneyBalls tells them that he sees a wonderful future in store for them and that their dead dog wants them to know that he’s happy on the other side with Granny and Paws the cat, they lap it right up. I mean, he knew that Granny was dead! And you never told him! He must be legit!

Or perhaps he just clocked you coming in all positive and accepting, took in your age, your clothing, your immediate persona and he made some generic but fairly accurate conclusions about you. He sees health problems? Maybe you had a chest infection out last year. Death in the family? Perhaps your great-aunt died just before Christmas. Travel on the horizon? Who doesn’t have travel on the horizon these days?

Sitting in the dark room the other night with the tatty old cards laid out on the table in front of me, I was determined to poker face my way through the session. He was gonna have to do this on his own.

He asked about the animosity on my father’s side of the family, wanted to know why there’s a separation there, why we don’t speak very often. I took a moment to correct my raised brow and duly told him that we were actually a very close-knit family and had, in fact, all been away together the weekend before. Not quite on top form there buddy. Go again.

“What about the recent death on your mother’s side of the family?”  … “Well, my grandmother died 12 years ago.” Ouch. Strike two. It really wasn’t going all that incredibly well between myself and Mr. MoneyBalls here in his curtained cave. My inner cynic was utterly frothing at the mouth at the realisation that it had been right all along. The naïve, curious side of me, however, was a tad crushed in the knowledge that my life really was in my own clumsy hands.

With a mutual recognition that this reading was turning out to be far from the best show he’d ever done, he got a little more specific. He told me he saw travel in my future. Right. No shit Sherlock, but okay. Apparently Australia’s not for me but I’d really enjoy South America or Africa. He told me he saw marriage. Again, doesn’t take a genius, but all right, I’ll take it as a prediction. He wanted to know why I thought I wouldn’t have children. Fair play, you took a risk, thought maybe I looked like someone who didn’t have much time for kids. But FAIL nonetheless. He told me I’d always come back home and would end up settling within 30 minutes of where I currently live. Game over buddy. My definite (vague) and intended (hoped) life plan dictates otherwise.

I reckon that was about the time he gave up on me. He’d gotten it wrong so many times it almost seemed pointless to continue. I wasn’t buying it. He knew I wasn’t buying it. He told me to enjoy my travels and the session was brought to an abrupt and slightly awkward end with a shake of the hand and the exchange of what I’ve decided is a sufficient amount of money to justify scamming vulnerable, insecure housewives from across Ireland for a few hours in the evening during the week.

There’s a medium in the UK by the name of Derek Acorah. Some might know him from his work on ‘Most Haunted’ in which he became “possessed” by a spirit called Kreed Kafer. Kreed Kafer was subsequently exposed to be a total fabrication and a rather obvious anagram of the words ‘Derek Faker’. Clever. A while back I watched a documentary featuring Acorah. He was accused of being a fraud, cold-reading his clients, throwing out non-specific statements, gauging reactions and essentially just allowing people to make their own assumptions. He had hoards convinced. In reality it was all just years of honed fakery and showmanship. Acorah, of course, was enraged at the suggestion that he might be a liar and denied everything. But like, come on. I am, however, giving Derek one more shot at pursuading me. He has predicted that he will be involved in a plane crash between the UK and Canada in 2013. He reckons he’ll be one of three survivors and will consequently need a walking stick. So… Yeah… Look out for that news… I swear, if that happens I will eat your hat (I like mine)!

Derek Acorah under the influence of Derek Faker… Wait…

Anyways, feeling both disappointed at the lack of any kind of philosophical insight into my healthy, loss-lacking, socially acceptable life and decidedly smug at the confirmation that good old, time tested logic always prevails, we drove home, with me explaining to Mum exactly why I had deemed the man a fraudster, in between bursts of trying to reassure her that yes, I could see that the car in front of me was indicating and I wasn’t driving too fast.

Moral? I dunno really. Don’t go see a psychic. Instead, maybe just… get on with your life and quit being so darned scared of fucking it up. Be graaaaand!

Here’s a link to the art of cold reading. Why not set up down the back of your local and charge innocent old ladies a fortune to come and be cheated? http://www.wikihow.com/Cold-Read

PS: In case you’re wondering, my eternally trusting mother’s reading turned out to be a much more insightful experience for her.

There Were Five of Us In The Wolfpack…

I’m not trying to be the full time reminiscing about my college days on here. Droning on about how awesome it was back then as opposed to how crummy it is now. By the time my final year rolled around, having watched as the closest of my peers fell by the bi-annual exam wayside, I was WELL ready to graduate and get the rock outta there. I was sick of lectures. I was sick of campus and I was, most definitely, sick of the city. My heart had had enough of buses and lights and neighbours and costs. It was pining for a world that consisted of dogs, the sound of a car engine in the vicinity being a “who’s here?!” situation and being able to see the stars in the night sky.

Home / Henry Street

Of course, hindsight is 20/20 and now, four years into my “real life”, as I assumed it to be, while the thoughts of city living fill me with a sense of suppressed rage and exhaustion, I miss education. I miss learning something everyday. I miss deadlines and the constant niggling pressure that keeps you with something on the to-do list at all times. I miss going to Tae Kwon Do on a Wednesday evening or to the bar on a Tuesday. I miss coming home at the weekends for a catch-up with friends in the smoking area of the dingiest pub in town. It was ignorant bliss at it’s most brilliant, where my biggest concern was whether I should spend my last fiver on printing fees for this assignment that’s due in tomorrow OR should I spend it on three bottles of Koppaberg to drink in the courtyard with the gang right now? The Koppabergs won every time and the assignments almost always got printed somehow, like I’d known they would from the start.

Then, the other night, while listening to my sister describing the three boys she shares an apartment with in college, I got to thinking about the lucky people that have had the pleasure of living with me in Dublin in the mid-noughties and how sad it is knowing that I might never live like that again. As much as I was glad to get out of there in the end, it’s apparent to me now that I took for granted the time I got to spend living with the characters I lived with.

In first year, I managed to secure a place on campus. I was in a tiny little “apartment” that consisted of two single blue-carpeted bedrooms, each with a door that opened into the kitchenette that separated them. Behind the kitchenette was a bathroom reminiscent in size to that of an airplane toilet. On my second day there, another girl moved into the second bedroom, 27B. I don’t even remember her name. It was never going to work. She took one look at me, cigarette in hand, black hair, lip ring and a red t-shirt with the word “HOSTILE” emblazoned on the front. She moved all her food from the kitchen cupboard to her wardrobe. She locked her bedroom door and within a week, she was gone.

Me, popping pills, having seances and provoking people to hide food in wardrobes, circa 2006.

For a while I gleefully and naively thought that she wouldn’t be replaced. I had a whole sub-letting scheme going on in my head. Until one day, about two weeks later, in walked Claire. She was wearing a GAA jersey, her hair strewn back into a bun and a massive smile on her face as she shook my hand. She wasn’t remotely deterred by my menacing appearance. In fact, she was lovely. Claire was consistently cheerful. Her enthusiasm for just about everything was infectious and, despite being incredibly sporty and health-conscious, she tolerated my Thursday night parties, my smoking habit and my continual failure to bother going to class, for the whole year without ever so much as shooting me a disapproving look. She was even there with a comforting shoulder when I broke up with my first real boyfriend. When the college year drew to a close and the time came to move out and go home for the summer, I will admit to welling up a bit when I hugged Claire goodbye.

When I returned to campus in September, I was set to go, new upgraded, facypants 2^nd year apartment where I was to have the luxury of my own en-suite bathroom. Except when I got there, there was a fuck-up with residences and I ended up, last minute, being placed in a room in an apartment with four guys, none of whom I knew. I was horrified. I knew immediately what to expect. Mountains of beer cans and unwashed dishes, sticky floors, X-Box and bad smells. It was pretty accurate. But what I didn’t expect was for that living situation to end up being one of the most relaxed times of my life.

The four guys, Willie, Mark, Brendan and Fergal were delighted to have a girl on board. They enquired about my cookery skills, my cleaning abilities and about any “hot birds” that I might have had in my social circle. Our relationship was sealed when, one afternoon, upon the discovery of an army of ants living under the desk in my bedroom, I ran to the living room for help. The guys came running and, after awing at the huge volume of critters invading my space for a minute, proceeded to blast the colony with an arms consisting of a can of Lynx and a lighter. Then, admiring the charred carpet and array of dead ants, and giving me a sympathetic pat on the back, they went back about their business (I got out the dustpan and brush).

The rest of the year became a rota of television shows on MTV. We’d convene on the sofas daily for a round of ‘Next’ and ‘Date My Mom’, placing bets on the outcomes and pleading our case when we guessed it wrong. Fergal was poker fanatic. He’d come home at night, drunk, after a hard night’s bluffing, and regale me with tales of how close he’d come to winning it, “fuckin’ ragin’!” he’d say, inhaling his cigarette and shaking his head, thinking about the €400 he’d just lost. Brendan and Mark were old friends. Mark, tall and serious, was often to be found in a suit. I think he actually owned a briefcase. Brendan was quite the opposite. He was always found in slouchy jeans with earphones slung around his neck. Before leaving the apartment he’d always stop and give you the peace sign through the window before he exited. Willie (Hi Willie! ;)) was a real sports-head. In addition to playing gaelic, he was also on the university’s American Football team and was really involved in go-karting. He was very popular, known by everyone and constantly on the go, fuelling up with Berocca before running out the door. He was also a regular Cassanova, owing to his tactical and perfectly executed charm. Willie once learned that I am apt to a bit of cleaning after a few drinks. From that point onwards, whenever we were having pre-drinks drinks at home, if I turned my back for a second, Willie would have my glass re-filled and strengthened twice-over in the hope that I’d get drunk enough to clean the place, alas it more often resulted in me not getting very far past the bed for the rest of the night.

The apartment was usually messy. The floor was decorated with shoes, bottles and random bits of clothing or books. Every now and again I’d try and clean it or put some flowers in the window. But mostly, I didn’t care. The point of that being, that I learned that the better part of how content we are somewhere has nothing to do with our surroundings or any of that feng shui bolox. It’s the people who make an environment bearable. Living with the lads for that year, I had some of the best laughs I ever had.

You know how it goes…

The following year, my final one, I was placed in an apartment in the same complex. This time I lived with four girls. All nursing students. All strangers. They hated me. I mean, those girls thought that I was the devil incarnate. I think in the entire year that I lived there, I had maybe two conversations with them. They were all really straight-laced, friends already and not into anything remotely out of the ordinary. One night I invited some friends over. I didn’t want to mess up the girls evening by commandeering the living room so we spent the night hanging out in my bedroom. We had some drinks, listened to music, talked, laughed, tried to talk one of the guys through his relationship woes. By the time we realised the time, it was too late to send everyone home. We set up some beds on the floor and two of the lads headed for the living room sofas. The next morning, Paidi, a big metalhead with long red-hair who looked a little scary but was actually a gentle giant, told me that while he’d been asleep on the couch that morning, two of my roommates had come into the kitchen and had a whispered conversation about what they assumed my friends and I had been doing all night. Their description concluded that we must have been “popping pills and having a séance.” I. Shit. You. Not.

I barely said goodbye to those girls when I moved out at the end of the year.

Living with the boys in 2^nd year, although I was happy, I was wholly unappreciative of the simplicity of the other sex. Boys don’t judge the way girls do. They don’t make assumptions. They take things as they see them. The general rule of the apartment seemed to be something along the lines of, “if the mess bothers you, clean it.” It didn’t matter who made it. If you had the problem, you could deal with it. That year, I was content in a world where everyone said what they meant and bad behaviour was applauded. Pranks, in boy world, are a million times better because along with the elimination of girls goes the elimination of the risk of someone getting upset and storming off. A joke is a joke. Retaliation is fair and it’s all to be laughed about later. I felt embraced by the guys, part of the gang. I heard all the smut and gritty details. I learned how to be really good at Mario Kart and I learned to chill the fuck out a bit and not to think so damn much.

Now, older, wiser (ish) and musing over the good ol’ days, I doubt that I’ll ever have such a situation again. In the years since my emigration from Dublin, I’ve lived with my best friend. It’s a much more gratifying experience. It’s an environment where the smell is pretty decent, the dishes are washed and the carpet is vacuumed. We get on like a house on fire and, while I do look back fondly on the days of the “boy pack”, I’m not sure I’d go back.

I guess I just want to take that uncomplicated, it is what it is, boy mentality away with me.  Bottle it and try and convince people that maybe, just maybe, men have got it right when it comes to social skills. They’re not dumb, as stereotype dictates we believe, they just don’t give a shit if we think they are.

And then they go about their day. Harmony.

I Hate It When That Happens…

Have you ever stepped on an upturned plug and cursed the brat who left it there? Or gotten frustrated by a group of teenagers blaring music out loud on a bus? Have you ever been annoyed by someone reading a newspaper over your shoulder? Or fumed at stepping in dog shhhh (mess) on the footpath? Have you ever griped about how unhygienic it actually is to offer the sign of peace at mass? Or seethed at the sight of someone throwing rubbish out the window of a car?

Pet peeves. I’ve got ‘em. You’ve got ‘em. Your Mom’s got ‘em. The postman’s got ‘em. You get the gist. Life is full of little nuisances and irritations. Unfortunately there’s very little do be done about them. There will always be something that just rubs you up the wrong way.

At the realisation that I haven’t posted anything here since March and with inspiration from a conversation I had with a 9-year-old after her shoe fell off when she was running, here is but a glimpse into the plethora of pet peeves that I battle on a daily basis…

 People Who Want The Red Sweet

Have you ever been eating a packet of Starburst (or Opal Fruits if you’re awesome) and someone asks can they have one? “No problem buddy, what’s mine is yours. Here ya go.”… “Oh, I only like the red ones. Can I have a red one?”

Excuse you?! Are you having an episode?! No shit you only like the red ones! EVERYONE knows that the red ones are the best ones. Matter fact, if Starburst did away with all the other colours and just sold packets of the red ones, that’d be juuuust fine. And it’d put a halt to those uncomfortable situations where people ask for the red one and you have to either shut up and give it to them whilst wishing you never made friends with them in the first place or rummage through your vocabulary to try and find a way to tell them “no” without sounding like an anal dickhead.

There’s only ever one or two red sweets in the pack. They’re precious and, least in my case, are always put aside to be enjoyed once I’ve grudgingly made my way through the poxy orange, green, yellow and purple ones. As far as I’m concerned there’s an etiquette to be followed if you want a sweet off someone: take what ya get and put some gratitude in your attitude!

Or just ask for any other colour but the red ones. Actually, here, you can just have all the other ones.

People Who Say “Ha Ha!”

I work with children. This means that on a daily basis I am subject to questions like, “are you getting a baby?” or comments such as, “My mammy says it’s rude to have a ring in your nose like you.”

It’s fine. You’re just a child. I’m not offended (I’m actually crying on the inside). It’s part of the joys of war. I’m not getting a baby, I just had a big lunch and eh, your mammy would wanna lighten the fuck up. Children are, by nature, explicitly honest. It’s what I love and loathe most about them.

There is, however, one phrase I hear more than any other that drives me up the wall and out the windows: “Ha Ha!”

I don’t mean “Ha Ha” as in that’s funny, I’m laughing. I mean “Ha Ha” in a mean, Nelson from The Simpsons kind of way. I forgot my purse! “Ha Ha!” I broke a cup! “Ha Ha!”  I tripped over a schoolbag and knocked my head off the radiator! “Ha Ha!”

Course, I’m not talking exclusively about children here. I love those guys mostly. Adults do it too. Immature, awkward ones who haven’t quite worked out who they are yet.

Thing is, when you trip or break something or fumble in some way, it can be pretty shitty and the last thing you need is some mean-spirited person making fun of you while ensuring that everyone’s attention is drawn to your mishap with a mocking, “Ha Ha!”

There’s no comback. Thanks for that.

Slow Drivers

To clarify, speeding is wrong. It’s against the law and 60% of the time, I never do it. But, and this is a big, Kim Kardashian but(t), slow drivers do my head in.

I’m late most of the time. If you tell me to be somewhere at 6 o’clock, I’ll be there at ten past. I realise that this is a pet peeve of a lot of people but I can’t help it. ‘Less it’s super important, I’m inherently guilty of punctual unreliability.

Anyways, as a result of this, I usually cannot afford to get caught up behind tractors and/or drivers who aren’t really sure where they’re going. When I should have been at work ten minutes ago, I need to be doing at least the speed limit.

It’s awful when you’re cruising along and you catch up with the old lady from down the road doing 40mph in 2^nd gear with her left indicator on since she left her house. She’s driving half way across the line and you can’t get past.

Fair play to ya for being mobile and independent at your age Mrs. Murphy but like, MOVE!!!

Texting While in a Conversation

Nothing says, “I’m not listening” like the clicking of the buttons on a mobile phone while you’re trying to talk to someone.

I appreciate that texting has to be done. I’m a habitual texter myself. But if you’ve ever been talking to someone and then you have to repeat what you’ve said because the other person stopped listening to reply to a text, then you know the frustration you feel.

Texting is a handy way to stay in touch with people, or to let your friends know important details of your day, like, that you just met their father in the shop. The texting itself is not what bothers me. What bothers me is when sending a text takes priority over having an actual real-life, face-to-face conversation with someone.

No, no, don’t worry, I’ll just stand here like a bolox while you smirk at your phone and furiously click in a reply while pretending to listen to what I’m saying. Matter fact, hang on, I’ll just text it to ya.

Odd Socks

In the words of Rivers Cuomo, “my fashion sense is a little wack.” I am perpetually to be found in a hoodie. My hair hangs loose. My shoes are often scuffed and my nails unkempt. I’m not exactly what one would call “put together”. It’s not that I don’t care. Actually no, that’s exactly what it is. I’d much rather spend my time ambling with the dogs or chillin’ with itunes than agonising over what I’m gonna wear or applying fake tan. Too. Much. Hassle.

BUT… No matter how baggy my hoodie, no matter how dishevelled my hair looks, no matter how chipped my nail polish or torn the bottom of my trousers, I will ALWAYS be sporting matching socks. Guaranteed.

Odd socks bother me. Can’t explain it.

In my house I operate a self-imposed “buddy box” policy. I have a box in the laundry room. Any socks that lose their buddy in the process of washing must be placed into the buddy box where they will remain unless and until a buddy can be found.

I aaalmost can’t believe I just admitted that. I know. Anality, thy name is me.

People Who Are Afraid of Dogs

A phobia is characterised as being an irrational fear as in coulrophobia, a fear of clowns (clowns are funny yo!) or triskaidekaphobia, a fear of the number 13 (thanks Nirvana/Friends).

If you’re afraid of dogs, look away now ‘coz we’re about to fall out.

Officially, a phobia of dogs is called cynophobia. Unofficially it’s called ridiculous.

Of course I’m speaking from a biased perspective, that of a lifelong dog lover. I currently share my home with two big pooches, both of who have a big bark and a non-existent bite. You call wool and pull and antagonize and generally fuck with them all day long and receive nothing but attempted licks and wagging tails in return.

There are certain animal related fears I can get down with. Bears, for example. Bears are massive and not near as cuddly as their teddy counterparts mislead us to believe. A fear of sharks is also fairly reasonable, thinkin’ we’re seals and chowin’ the fuck down with their 20 million teeth. A fear of apes is acceptable too. They’ll rip your face clayne off with their opposable thumbs while staring you down with their unnervingly human eyes.

I’ve never been bitten by a dog, ever, so maybe it’s easy for me to talk but I’m sorry, I can’t sit back and understand when someone runs terrified of an animal that has long been regarded as man’s best friend, an animal that helps the blind and disabled, an animal that serves loyally in both the army and police force, an animal that emotes and loves and obeys. I just can’t.

Yeah, yeah, every dog is different, yadda yadda. I’m about as immovable on this subject as North Korea is on the idea of being honest. A dog is as vicious as its owner makes it.

Tangled Ear Phones

You finish with your ipod. You remove your earphones and you carefully wrap them around the device and deposit into your pocket/handbag/glovebox. Two hours later, you retrieve the ipod for another private disco session and, hey whaddya know, the earphones are now an incomprehensible, tangled mess. What. The. Fuck?! I was so careful!

It’s one of life’s great, unexplained mysteries. The same thing happens with the wires at the back of the TV. Nobody’s touched ‘em since the TV was bought and still, it’s like a labyrinth of black wires back there. You need to change the scart from the dvd player to the playstation? You’re gonna have to just start at one end and work your way to the other to avoid fucking shit up. Just one of those things I guess but daaaaaaaamn it’s annoying!

Finding Just a Little Bit Left

Confusing title. What I’m referring to is when you come home from somewhere and you go to the cupboard to get a bowl of cereal and you discover that there’s only a tiny bit left. When you get up in the morning and you go about making the tea, you open the fridge and find two drops are left in the milk carton. When you go to use the bathroom and discover one sheet of paper left on the roll. When you take a shower and the conditioner bottle spurts out enough to do about an eighth of your hair.

To the person who uses all these things before me; just take it all. I see your logic. You don’t want to be the prick that used the last of the washing powder. But please don’t bother insulting me with the dregs. I have no use for the heel of the bread. Honestly, I’ll be less annoyed to discover there’s none left than to get excited and then realise it’s a useless amount. Just let selfishness prevail in this instance.

Being The First One At A Party

Noone wants to be the first one to arrive. You try and time it so you’ll be just late enough that there’s a few people there ahead of you. Problem being that this is a universal solution and thus, everyone’s late and you still risk being the first to arrive. My tip from the top is to wait until you’re late, and then just wait a little longer, then go.

Otherwise, you risk arriving while the “big lights” are still on, the music hasn’t been figured out and no one’s had a drink yet. You sit alone on the sofa, looking at the DVD collection while your host “jumps in the shower real quick”.

Being late isn’t about being fashionable. It’s about avoiding boredom.

Automated Answering Services

You know the ones.

A few weeks back I rang Vodafone. I was trying to unblock a SIM. I tried to do it online to no avail. I needed help. So I rang ‘em. For the life of me I could not work out how to get speaking to a real person.

Press 1 to do this. Press 5 to do that. Please log on to vodafone.useless to unblock the SIM. In the end I just rang the nearest Vodafone shop and got them to talk me through it.

If a company is going to use an automated answer service, an option to speak to a rep should always exist on the very first menu. That is all.

Trampolines

THEY’RE SO DANGEROUS!!!

Right, sure I s’pose that’s enough for now. Too many pet peeves and reading about pet peeves will soon become a pet peeve. Maybe another time I’ll get grumpy and moan some more. Or maybe I’ll balance the scales and regale you with a list of some of the best things ever (finding money you forgot you had/lists themselves).

There wasn’t even any fun pictures to look at this time. Fuck sake.